Sherlock Holmes and The Case Phantoms
by kiraglitter
Summary: Two familiar ladies come to the famous London detective on a bleary day, wet and shaken with two mysteries for Holmes with his trusty Watson, who is visiting . A dash of romance, friendship, humor, violence, and mostly a badly written mystery. Please R
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello and Greetings. I am a huge fan of Conan Doyle's work and his greatest creation. This project was actually for a school classic book project ages ago. I got an awesome score on it (god I am pompous). On the whole, it is a Holmes/Adler, but also a Holmes and Watson friendship. It also has something of a weak kind of mystery, that is utterly transparent (Sorry, this is my first forray into mystery writing, which like all writingis dependent upon small details, but perhaps more so that other types of writing). I tried to make it as canon as I could, because I'm totally anal about accuracy. I'm pretty sure there are some typos, so feel free to spot them out, but be gentle, please.**

**One thing I find totally amusing, is the fact that since there was no copywriting in that era, Holmes is completely public domain, so this is in fact actually legal!! But of course, we all know the brilliance is not mine (duh!). But I sincerely hope you like it.**

**REVIEW? PLEASE??**

Chapter One

It was another bleary, gray Saturday, and my famous companion, the celebrated consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, lay presently across from myself. I sat in my usual chair, reading the agony column of the Daily Telegraph.

Holmes lounged like a lion in the sun across from me, his eyes half-closed, and a pipe stuck resolutely between his lips. He stared at nothing in particular, as he lounged listlessly in his bedclothes, which hung off a lean, but thin frame. I would have hazarded a guess that he was bored, irritated perhaps, or even in a daze from cocaine. I hoped sincerely that it was not the latter.

I had arrived yesterday to pay him a visit, while my wife went to stay with family. It had been quite a while since I last saw Holmes, with his irregular habits and somewhat eccentric behavior. However all of those things served a greater purpose. His precise mind, in which emotions were so aberrant, served law and justice.

But I despair deeply in his apparent drug addiction. My friend, whose wide-ranging talents eclipse those of violin playing, boxing, logic, acting, and unrivaled wit, had one deep and perhaps incorrigible flaw, which was that of his drug addiction. In the locked drawer of his desk, he keeps the syringe locked away for the darkest of days when no cases seem worthy of his attention. I fear for his health and well-being where the drug is concerned.

The other seemingly innate fear that blossomed inside me as I discovered the interesting facets of his life, were that of love. I often wondered if my dearest friend was not just as lonely in his mind as the rest of his fellow man, who yearned for some kind of deep affection from a lady.

But no, Sherlock Holmes seemed to abhor love, and found it only useful in the case of discovering a motive of a man for some great crime. To him, to allow such a thing inside his own mind and personality was like a crack in one of his highly focused microscopes, or a distraction in his pin-point judgment.

But next to the box that contains the syringe inside his locked drawer, is the picture of the questionable and beautiful Irene Norton _nee_ Adler. Holmes used to make merriment over the cleverness of women, but it seemed less so since the Scandal in Bohemia, when Irene Norton, who I still call Adler, destroyed the best laid plans of the greatest London detective, Sherlock Holmes. I often wonder if he admired her perhaps, for her cleverness and beauty. To him, she eclipsed the whole of her sex, and I must agree to his views.

And as if my friend had read my mind, which he so often seemed to do, he announced with such contempt, I was startled, "Watson, she is a vixen. A fox."

"Who?" I inquired, pretending not to know.

"The Woman."

Yes, that was the honorable title which he called her by. We sat in silence for a moment, save the drizzling rain outside and the regular noises of Baker Street.

How peculiar that he was mentioning her at this very moment, when I was wondering her fate as well. Her maid had informed us upon arriving at Briony Lodge when we had come to take the compromising photograph of herself and the king, that she and her husband had gone to take a train to the Continent. It was soon revealed in a letter left for Holmes, that she had outmaneuvered him, and that she kept the photo as only safeguard against the opulent, and perhaps obstinate king. Another photograph was left, one of herself only, which was the only payment that Holmes had requested from the king.

"Tell me, Watson, what would such a woman do now? Where would she go?"

This slightly uncharacteristic annoyance seemed to bode well for the hope that he was not in a slump from the use of cocaine and morphine.

"Hmm." I replied noncommittally, readjusting my newspaper.

He snorted and returned to his examination of the ceiling. "Holmes, have you eaten anything at all today?"

"No my Boswell, I have not. Why should I eat when there are other things to think about? Why should I care for myself in such a superfluous manner when I have no answer to these horrid questions of mine?" He pressed his long fingers together and closed his eyes. "God, I think I have sunken to rock bottom this time, Watson. Look at this."

And he threw a sheet of paper at me from where he lay. It was a letter in a vaguely familiar hand. "'Dear Mr. Holmes,'" I read aloud, "'there is a matter upon which I must consult you immediately, regarding a situation at my school. I do not know if you remember me, but my name is Violet Hunter, and you helped to clear up the business at Copper Beeches. I hope so desperately that you can advise me once again, for this is a matter, I feel, is of great importance. I shall call upon you at Baker Street on Saturday around two 'o' clock. This matter concerns the near disappearance of one of the students at my school. The boy has failed to return to school after the Christmas holidays. Please help me once again, Mr. Holmes,

"'your's most faithfully, Violet Hunter'"

"Oh, Watson, the boy has failed to return from the Christmas Holiday, what a tragedy!" he snorted. "It is such a mystery, that Ms. Hunter has decided to consult me once again! The boy has probably just stayed home with the influenza or has changed schools, I don't see what all the fuss is."

"But Holmes! This could be serious, a child has vanished and Ms. Hunter feels that it is urgent to consult you. Do you not remember the circumstances upon which she first arrived into our company?"

Ms. Hunter had first consulted Holmes upon whether or not she should accept a situation as governess in the Copper Beaches. The case appeared at first to be innocent, but we later discovered that she was unwittingly forced to impersonate the master of the house's daughter, in order to scare off her lover. It was a greedy attempt to keep the family fortune from walking away with her lover. Holmes, however, solved the case very quickly. It had turned out to be one of his more fascinating cases if I may say so myself.

"And what difference does that make?" he said. "All of our cases are peculiar, Watson. Her case only first appeared to be innocent, absurd really, but this is very plausible. I cannot help Ms. Hunter again!" and he stood up suddenly and retired to his quarters.

I wondered why he was so agitated today. Perhaps it had to do with Ms. Hunter. When she had first entered our sitting room, I thought Holmes was impressed with her brisk, independent manner. But he later showed no real interest in her after the case was finished, much to my disappointment. Ms. Violet Hunter was beautiful surely, quick, independent and bright. I hoped she was not married, perhaps for Holmes' sake –but sure enough, her signature was still Violet Hunter. No man had yet been involved with her as far as I could tell.

The letter had no other real points of interest, other than its actual contents, she had used a fountain pen, with black ink, was right handed, and perhaps had written this letter in great haste, for it was unkempt and the ink was smeared and smudged in places. I smelled the letter; only a slight hint of sweet feminine perfume was detectable. I sighed. Holmes surely got more information out of this letter than I did. As always, he would have deducted why this letter was written in great haste, exactly what kind of paper it was, and where Ms. Hunter was and what else she was doing at the time when she wrote this.

It was nearly two, and Holmes had not yet reappeared. Ms. Hunter would be arriving shortly.

I heard the unmistakable noise of someone knocking on the front door of 221B, and sure enough, I could hear Mrs. Hudson and Ms. Hunter upon the steps, talking in a friendly manner, however, the actual contents of their conversation were as follows:

"You need to dry off Ms. Hunter -you'll catch your death of cold!"

"No. Mrs. Hudson, thank you, really –but I must see Mr. Holmes. He is expecting me, I sent a letter that should have arrived today –please Mrs. Hudson, I'm fine really, but a hot drink would be most welcome…"

There was a thump, and Mrs. Hudson cried, "Doctor! Doctor, come quickly!"

I tore out onto the landing and saw Mrs. Hudson crouched over Ms. Hunter who was collapsed upon the stairs. She looked very thin, and very pale. Holmes appeared behind me, still in his bedclothes.

I scrambled down the steps and took her pulse, "She's fine Mrs. Hudson, only fatigued. Come, lets take her into the warmth, we can't keep her on the stairs."

Mrs. Hudson, Holmes and I heaved Ms. Hunter into our sitting room, depositing the young woman upon the sofa. Mrs. Hudson looked quite distressed, wringing her hands glancing at the collapsed figure on the sofa.

"Mrs. Hudson, go and find something warm and dry for her to wear, she'll get sick with her clothes sopping wet like that." I commented, rechecking her pulse. Holmes handed my thermometer to me, and I took her temperature. She was 102 degrees. "She's sick, desperately so." I announced to Holmes, who began to smoke tobacco from the Persian slipper.

He looked her over in a searching manner. "Looks like a ragged kitten. The foolish woman should have stayed at her school, rather than traveling here only to catch her death."

"So you still won't help her?" I spooned some medicine into her mouth.

Mrs. Hudson returned with clothes, and Holmes and I left the room so Ms. Hunter could be changed. When we returned, Ms. Hunter was wrapped warmly in some of Mrs. Hudson's bedclothes, and the blanket which normally hung on the sofa. She sat up, with a steaming mug in her trembling hands.

"How are you feeling?" I asked. Holmes flitted through the room to his chambers to change into his normal attire.

"Doctor," she said, "It's been so long, I'm glad to see you." She smiled weakly.

"Ms. Hunter, I strongly suggest that you sleep for a while, Holmes and I could go out for an hour to let you rest, you are obviously exhausted."

"No, Doctor Watson! I must speak to Mr. Holmes, this is a matter of great urgency! Please, a child is missing, and I must be on my way –"

"You are in no state to do anything except rest. Speaking to Holmes can wait."

Ms. Hunter looked so drawn and tired, I seriously feared for her health.

"Let her speak, Watson." Holmes had reappeared and strode into the room to shake her hand. "Ms. Hunter, this is obviously not the happiest of times. Pray, tell me your urgent business, but I do not think that I can be of much assistance in this case. However, I will do any service that I can to oblige you. But it sounds as if the boy is merely sick, or has changed schools-"

"No, Mr. Holmes, he has not, please let me have just a piece of your valuable time, I insist that you hear me out." She shivered and I administered another dose of medication. "Thank you, Doctor, but I must continue -I feel that I have very little time to regurgitate the events."

"Then tell us, Ms. Hunter, and let us hope that this case is not as sinister as the last that you were involved with."

**A/N again: If you don't get Ms. Hunter, I advise you read Copper Beaches. I rather like her charecter more than Adler, but whatever. Adler fits better by Doyle's little words. But I think Adler was supposed to just represent a flaw in Holmes, an exception to his iron-clad sexism, to make him more fascinating. Everyone loves a wounded hero! And I am certainly a sucker for that!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: It's me again, and I have to say, that I will be uploading several chapters in quick succession because I have already written them before joining FF. So those people who hate cliffhangers, or not finishing a story, rest assured, I am in this for the long run...If you can call uploading several chapters all in a week (which is what I am aiming at, as my time online is limited, and I am pathetically mooching off a neighbor's unsecured wireless...). Well, ahem, anyway, enough of my patheticness!**

**I tried my best to write like Doyle, and I can tell you that it was really hard, but it gave me good experience. Seriously, try it! Try to get in another writer's head, preferably from a different time period and try to write like him or her, it's a huge pain in the butt, but it helps you develope your own style, and opens you up to lots of different writing. (god that sounds condescending) But really, every writer has his or her own personal flair, their choice of wording, which reflects _so well_ their something of their own personality and thoughts and insights into the world!**

**Now that I'm done being pathetic and condescending and pompous- on with the story!**

Chapter Two

"Two weeks ago, the students were due to return from their Christmas holidays, but Davie Michaels, has not. He has but one rich father, Lord Alistair, his mother perished of illness several years ago. He is only nine, Mr. Holmes, and I fear for his life." She said, "Michaels has not returned, he was due to return from the holidays with his father, but has not returned. We have attempted unsuccessfully to try and contact his father at the Bracken Thorn Manor, which is the residence at which his father lives."

"Tell me, Ms. Hunter, is there anything special about the boy?"

"Oh yes, Mr. Holmes, he is a lonely child, with no apparent friends, I have made all inquiries I could think of –and all his schoolmasters tell me that he is shunned by his peers. He makes average grades in all subjects but Music and Drawing."

"Why is he shunned by his peers?"

"We cannot fathom why, Mr. Holmes, he is a pleasant, but perhaps lonely child. The death of his mother must have changed him considerably. Also, it is noted that the Music conductor is missing. He also teaches art, and has not returned from his holiday either."

"Do you believe that he has taken the boy?"

"I do not know, Mr. Holmes –certainly it is possible, but why?"

"That I cannot entirely fathom. You say the boy was an excellent musician, and artist?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. He has an extraordinary talent, far better than I ever was, and at such a young age, it is amazing, incredible."

"Tell me about the conductor."

"Well, Mr. Holmes, the last time you met me, I was but twenty-three, now, I am thirty-five. Twelve years have passed, but I still remember our adventure very clearly. After our excursion was completed, I taught at the Dean School, in Walsall, and succeeded a Ms. Counter as Headmistress. The Music instructor is a man by the name of Archibald Hetherington, who came to the Dean School naught but five years ago, two years before I became headmaster. We became good friends, Mr. Hetherington and I…" here she broke off, looking severely distressed. "Oh, Mr. Holmes, he even proposed marriage once-"

"But I can see that you declined, you are still Ms. Hunter," said Holmes.  
"You are right, I did reject him, and I fear that I may have driven him to this," she began to cry at this point. I offered her my handkerchief and Holmes looked away. "No, thank you, Doctor, but I must continue. I do not love him, nor do I think that I can. Ever since I refused him, he has been a somewhat colder person, broken, even it seems, there are times when I regret my decision, but those fears are always pushed away by the fact that I do not love the poor man."

"So it is possible that he may have stolen this prodigy in an attempt to spite you, tell me, has he done anything of this nature before?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, he…treated me quite bitterly for a time, sending me hate letters, and playing somewhat…disgusting pranks on me. Animal parts mailed to me in packages, my bicycle with its wheels punctured, and horrible things. But he stopped later on, about a year after this."

"And when did he propose to you?"

"About two years ago," she said, "he was such a sweet, sentimental man beforehand, but he turned into a cruel, calculating beast after my refusal. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I do not know where he is, or where the boy is, both have vanished completely." And she cried harder than ever, "Oh, please help me, I do not know what to do, for days I have been growing more and more anxious, Mr. Holmes… and then I remembered how you helped me before, and solved the mystery at Copper Beeches. I felt at much more at ease, but still anxious, for, the boy has not yet returned, although I am sure you can help me, Mr. Holmes."

My companion stared at the bedraggled woman sitting before us, and then said, perhaps out of pity at our former client's state, said, "Alright Ms. Hunter, alright, I will help you, but there are several less sinister and far more likely explanations for this series of events. Tell me more tomorrow, when you are better."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes, I feel much more at ease, now that you are on the case." She rose from the sofa, but I pressed her back down.

"You must rest, stay here for the night, Ms. Hunter, Mrs. Hudson will make you a room in no time," I insisted.

"That is very kind of you, but-"

"No buts, you look dead on your feet, and I'll fetch Mrs. Hudson."

With the combined efforts of all three of us, Mrs. Hudson managed to chivy her into a room for the night, and Holmes and I settled down again in our rooms to discuss the new case at hand.

"I decided not to question her further, although much more information is necessary to ascertain the very nature of this mystery," said Holmes, lighting a pipe with the tobacco from the Persian slipper on the mantelpiece. He tossed the spent match into the fire, and continued, "The poor girl is obviously greatly distressed, and even I, a man not of the medical profession can see that she is greatly ill, you are quite right to make her stay."

His voice was much softer now, and he gazed into the fire, eyes half-closed once again. Perhaps he felt some emotion toward Ms. Hunter, professional concern at the very least. "Did you see her hair? It was cut again recently, just like at Copper Beeches, one would normally think she would choose to let it grow again, Watson, wouldn't you say? She must have walked here from a hotel she is staying at, now why would such a lady not have her umbrella? Was she in that much of hurry to consult me? It appears so; she must have had a great upset to her normal lifestyle to forget the umbrella when it has been pouring with rain for the past several hours, she probably just reached London."

"If you say so Holmes, even I could see that she was greatly distressed."

"Yes, she was missing one of her gloves as well. Her dress was spattered with mud, Watson, why did she not take a cab? She is the head of a school, surely she could afford it. I think something has changed in such a manner that our Ms. Hunter is not the same, certainly not. Perhaps that bloke, Mr. Hetherington has changed her. Damn! Watson, damn! We should have said more, but then you ushered her out of the room!"

My companion was irritable once again, and with some unconnected surge of humor, I saw that he was smoking from the long cherrywood pipe that he was smoking that very day before Ms. Hunter arrived in our sitting room.

"Oh, Watson, this is terrible, we should question her more, we have no more data!" cried he, practically throwing his pipe into the air, "What has Mr. Hetherington done to our poor lady! The woman was trembling as she sat there before us, Watson. And to what purpose has our prime suspect stolen this child? To make money off of the child and display him like a freak to the public? And where is the boy's father, vanished, perhaps, just as his boy has?"

"Perhaps the father is the culprit," said I.

"No, Watson. No. This letter, can't you see how her writing is neater in places and different in others? Doesn't that seem peculiar? It looks as though she has written this letter on and off, in short scribblings too. Why would that be? If she had tried again and again to start this letter, then, why not write it on a new sheet of paper? Surely, she was running low on a supply, but for such a long period of time? Has Ms. Hunter reached such a level of poverty that she cannot afford the paper or a cab ride in this terrible weather?" His voice trailed off, "Oh, Watson, will you cease to scribble everything I say in those wretched notebooks of yours!"

He was in a very disputatious mood, for he collapsed into his regular seat across from me, and only spoke again once I had stowed my notebook securely in my bureau.

"I'm sorry for my ill-temper, Watson, but everything does seem rather hopeless."

"What do you mean, Holmes?"

"All of the streams of the greatest crimes have slowed to a trickle," he cried querulously, "The days of the great cases are long gone, and I have nothing but a seven percent solution, Watson."

"You have me." I said resolutely.

And at this Holmes gave a short but not at all contradictory laugh. He gave a small smile and I laughed too. I guess this set him in a better mood, for he switched out his pipes and said, "Ah, you are right, Watson, not all is lost when I have my biographer. What would I do without my Boswell?"

He pulled out his violin case and began to play for two hours. I had only heard this tune once before, it was the beautiful melody he had first played for me when I first began to know him. It was a treat for the gods, and I had almost fallen asleep in my chair when a great event took place.

It was heralded by a beautiful and familiar voice floating up the stairs.

"I need to see Mr. Holmes."

"But you do not have an appointment!" cried Mrs. Hudson, there was a scuffle as the woman tried to get past our most protective landlady, "He can't just see anyone, you know."

"Yes, but he will see me, I seek his help," said the female voice.

Holmes had ceased to play, and was sitting bolt upright in his seat, listening to the women argue and shove each other up and down the stairs.

"You really can't see him, he has already had a visitor today," said Mrs. Hudson, now on the flight closest to the door to our sitting room.

"Tell him my name," said the beautiful voice, just outside the door, "My name is Irene Adler."

And for the first time in all my years of knowing him, Holmes dropped the violin onto the rug.

**A/N again: Have you ever seen the T. V. show for Holmes? Not the black and white Bazil Rathbone one, but, the Jeremey Brett one. I love Jeremy Brett, along with a whole legion of other unusual actors. What do you think about my word choice? Tell me anything about the story, but please don't be too harsh on me- I'm just trying to worship the consulting detective in my own pathetic way...**

**Reviews and helpful critique are really one of the most rewarding things for writers, I think. It shows consideration, and more importantly, if anyone actually read the story. Is there a way to check the read count? I'm still new here and am kind of pathetic with technology. (hence the mooching of the neighbor's wireless mentioned above)**

**See the button below? Click it now and REVIEW me! Please??**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I haven't actually got much to say, but I hope you like the story so far. I spend a few too many chapters setting up the transparent mystery. Please R&R. **

**Your servant,**

**Kiraglitter**

* * *

Chapter Three

Irene Adler burst into the room; she was beautiful as ever, and just as disheveled as our previous visitor. Just behind her came Mrs. Hudson, still ranting and trying to push her out of the room.

Holmes did not even stoop to pick up the violin. He stood and stared at Adler, who stared right back. Their eyes stayed locked together for so long, that Mrs. Hudson stopped busying herself with trying to force Adler out of the room and simply stared at the two.

"It has been a long time, Mr. Holmes." said she, shaking his hand. For once, Holmes seemed too stunned for words. Finally, he caught his bearings.

"Yes. Do you come to me with a problem, Mrs. Norton?"

"Yes, I do, but my name is Adler now, or at least, that is what I choose to call myself again." she paused. "Mr. Holmes… I must beg that you help me now, just as you have helped the king of Bohemia."

"Mrs. Hudson, will you vanish please?" said Holmes.

"But Mr. Holmes-"

"Vanish, I say!" said he.

She left, and Adler sat down on the sofa previously vacated by Ms. Hunter. It seemed that it would serve as a resting place for all our bedraggled, female clients. Adler's angelic face smiled at Holmes, but in a weary sort of way.

"It was so many years ago, Mr. Holmes." Said she, "I am lost as to where to begin." She was a strong woman, but at this moment, she looked as if she might shed uncontrollable tears. "The day you found my letter, my husband and departed from England, and went to the continent. We traveled, from Italy to France, but never again to Bohemia. We were happy, with our own lives, away from the foolish lord. I must have spent the first year looking out for him, to make sure he did try to stop me before hand, no such thing occurred, Mr. Holmes, until two years ago then."

She shuddered, and began to weep, "After we traveled, my husband, whom I'm sure that you remember- began to work at a firm in England, perhaps you have heard of it. Unben and Jones, a firm located on the outskirts of London. I saw you many times through the windows, Mr. Holmes, but chose not to say- I had my own life, my husband, and we wished to stay low so as not to alert Wilhelm of our location. I was happy, Mr. Holmes, with my own life, my own family. But two years ago, a man entered my husband's firm.

"He was mustachioed with horrible eyes that searched me, when I looked upon him. I met him on multiple occasions, when my husband invited him over for dinner several times. I worked a theatre on the outskirts of London, doing a previously famous opera in Covent Garden. I worked under the name of Isabella Fario, an Italian opera singer."

"Holmes, that was the opera we couldn't see, because of a case! Starring Isabella Fario!" I interjected.

"Yes, Watson, I remember, quite well. I had wanted to see that opera for weeks, and on the night the tickets were good for, a case cropped up at the most inconvenient moment. But what tragedy has befallen you, Ms. Adler?"

"The man's name was Colonel Sebastian Moran."

"The Colonel!" shouted I.

Holmes paled. "Watson, fetch the book." I stood from my seat and pulled down one of the several volumes that outlines the most seasoned of criminals, most of them brought down to justice by Sherlock Holmes.

Next to the names of Moriarty, Mathews, and Morgan, was Moran's name. Holmes read aloud the passage for all to hear, "'_Moran, Sebastian, Colonel._ Unemployed. Formerly 1st Bengalore Pioneers. Born London, 1840. Son of Sir Augustus Moran, C. B., once British minister to Persia. Educated Eton and Oxford. Served in Jowaki Campaign, Afghan Campaign, Charasaib, et cetera… Arrested 1894 unofficially by Sherlock Holmes, and by Captain Lestrade on the charge of the murder of the Honourable Ronald Adair, and the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes. Sentenced to be hung, however escaped charge and currently lives underground. The second most dangerous man in London."

When he had finished, Adler sat looking pale in her seat. "Murderer? Yes, I knew that it was he who killed many, and did several disgusting acts which I can hardly mention."

"Yes," said I, "He was the killer of the late Ronald Adair. It was nasty business he tried to shoot Holmes with an air gun. The same method of murder that he used on poor Adair."

"He murdered many more than just poor Adair." She said, her voice brimming over with anger and bitterness

"But, pray continue on your fascinating tale."

"He lied to my husband; I could see it in his cruel eyes. He lied about estates, and how a lawyer was necessary to legalize the documents. They were lies Mr. Holmes, to hoodwink my husband and spy on us, but for what reason, I do not know. When I told Godfrey of my concerns he pushed them away. Such is the hubris of men." Her eyes glared with the hatred and passion that only women of such extraordinary caliber could poses. "He stayed for months, despite my urgings to my husband to leave, to escape this man; he did not heed my words. When I could stand Colonel Moran not a second longer, I engineered a trap for him. It was dangerous and foolish perhaps, but I was terribly blinded by anger and a desire to protect the one who I loved.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, I followed him after a dinner he had with my husband. I left the table early, excusing myself by claiming that I had an opera rehearsal. I quickly changed into male costume and waited, hidden in our yard, waiting for the savage man to leave. He did, it was nine-thirty when he left, an entire hour after I did myself. I followed him down the streets of London. He walked first, until he managed to call a cab, and took off. I quickly followed in my own cab; we rode in the dark for thirty minutes, until he exited his cab and entered his home. My plan was simple, and perhaps foolish. I planned to steal his papers or at least get a closer look at this man's lair. And so I did, Mr. Holmes. I managed to sneak into the house via an unlocked window. I stole into his study, searching for the documents I had seen so often in his company. I searched the bureau, his desk, but everything was empty, it was the most curios of circumstances. I fled the house, lest I be seen, for I heard a maid clattering around just outside the study door. I made my way back home, planning to tell my husband what I did.

"When I arrived back home, no one was there, my husband had vanished."

"What day was this?"

"I do not remember, but it was March of 1903, two years ago, Mr. Holmes."

"What has become of your husband?" I inquired, scribbling in my notes.

Her eyes blazed even more intensely with that strange bitter mix of anger and sorrow. "I searched for him for days, but could not find him. I feared him dead. I did not call the police, too scared that I would have to explain about the king. That business must never be reopened to the authorities!"

"But, Ms. Adler, upon discovering the letter that you had left me, the king decided to pursue you no longer, claiming that the photograph was as safe if you had thrown it in the fire. You should have told he police, Ms. Adler, the King decided to hunt you no longer." interjected Holmes.

She let out a terrible noise, a wail of despair. "To think that this could have been prevented!"

"What could have been prevented?"

"I searched for traces of my husband, nothing that indicated a struggle, nothing that told me where he went. My heart was broken. Would Wilhelm ever leave me in peace? No, no, never! Selfish and immature king who wishes my complete undoing, Mr. Holmes.

"I searched for months, all the time watching my back for Colonel Moran, who must have been involved in this terrible mess! I was prepared to swear that it was he who kidnapped my husband. All his things were in the house, except the things he had been wearing that night!"

She cried with fresh tears, but they were bitter in a routine sort of way. Even in her present condition, she was still incredibly beautiful. Her auburn hair glimmered in the light cast by our fire and her tears sparkled like dew in the morning sun.

"And you have been searching for him since? Why did you not come to me sooner?"

"You have not heard all, Mr. Holmes." said she, holding her head up high. "I kept my job at the theatre, and entirely assumed my new name as Isabella Fario. It was my only source of pay then, and it was all I did for a year, while a searched for my husband. That was a year ago, Mr. Holmes. As time went on, I tracked my only lead, my only clue- Colonel Sebastian Moran. I kept up with him, followed him at night, I even managed to lay way his post on multiple occasions. He did not know it was I, the woman he had spited by the love of her husband, who was dogging him more closely than you can possibly imagine. He visited several clubs, and paid off men, merchants and lowlifes to do deeds too disgusting to mention.

"His post was often very mundane but I soon realized what these ordinary letters contained, they were messages written in simple ciphers which were easily decodable. They spoke of dealings of blackmail, and forgery, and murder. My blood ran cold in my veins each time I read the vile pieces of script, Doctor." She turned to me, "He even mentioned you and Mr. Holmes in ill contempt. Now I know why."

"Did they lead you on to your husband?"

She turned her ferocious gaze to Holmes, "No, not until my second to last month of stalking. A correspondent of his, told him that Godfrey was ready for the plan, whatever that meant. Two days after that letter, I received this by post," she thrust an old and worn piece of paper into Holmes' hands.

I leaned over his shoulder to examine it. It was written in faded violet pencil, in plain bold letters. "8:00 a.m., Saturday, Covent Garden. Wear your red shawl."

"I was certain it was a trap, Mr. Holmes, certain that they had my husband, after a year of searching, why did they wait a year to trap me? It was so peculiar, so terribly strange that I decided that I would be ready.

"I have a friend in Covent Garden, named Kitty Winter-"

"Kitty!" said Holmes. "We know her, Watson, it is our vitriol-throwing acquaintance, from the business of the Illustrious Client."

"Yes, she told me of that affair, and how you attempted to bring Baron Gruner to justice, not long ago. I felt somewhat elated to know that you were doing this. Still working on the side of justice.

"I arranged for Ms. Winter to wear a red shawl, and for five other friends of mine to do the same, while I skulked in male costume, watching them. I informed all of them of the danger that might be involved, but all seemed proud to help me in my cause. A pair of men spoke to each of them in turn, attempting to find which one was me. I watched from a distance. Neither of the pair was my husband, but one of the two was certainly the colonel, but in common dress to disguise himself, as I had observed him doing so on multiple occasions.

"Each time they spoke to the girls, they responded with memorized instructions. Half of them said that they were indeed me, and the other didn't. Colonel dismissed all of them, except Kitty for not being me. He interrogated her, which culminated with him trying to attack her. Both I and Shinwell Johnson, who you also know, leapt to her defense from our secluded hiding places. Moran did not recognize me, as I was dressed as a man.

"'Here, what are you doin' attackin' a girl in the middle of the street, man!" cried Johnson. 'Get away from her, come on Kitty.'

"That did it. Moran realized that she wasn't me, and, blinded with rage he attacked again, only to be beaten by Johnson, who defended Kitty so rigorously, that all passersby stopped to watch the scene unfolding. I stepped forward, and intervened before a police man could step in. 'Break it up, gents!' I shouted. And both Kitty and Johnson disappeared into the crowd. I gave them instructions to follow behind me.

"As the crowd dissipated, I followed Moran and his goon out of Covent Garden. They bickered so loudly, I could almost hear them. They seem to be arguing over whether or not I had hoodwinked them, and that their plan was now useless.

"I stopped them in a marginally busy street to confront them as planned. 'It is I, Norton.' I said, staying at least two arms lengths away, just as Johnson had advised me. 'Tell me your business.'"

She stopped here.

"I must tell you Mr. Holmes that I had never been so scared in my life, as I was then, as Colonel Moran turned to face me with those cruel eyes, grinning an even crueler smile."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I pointlessly drag Mycroft into the fray. But only in this chapter. Please read, enjoy, and REVIEW!**

Chapter Four

"I am not a fearful person, Mr. Holmes, but it was the most frightening sight that I have ever laid eyes upon. I will stop myself here, but soon he commenced to tell me the nature of this business.

"'Your husband is in terrible danger. You have been rather difficult to catch, Ms. Fario, or rather, Norton.' said he.

"'What is it that you want, Moran?' I asked, 'Where is my husband?'

"'That is of no consequence. But you do need to know that he is in danger. We want you to marry the King.'

"'What King?' asked I.

"'Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigmond von Ormstein. In short, the king of Bohemia.'

"'He sent you for this purpose?' I asked, anger flaring deep inside myself. 'The king wants me to marry him? Does he not have enough of a wife?'

"'Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen is dead. She passed about a year ago. And, as you have probably read in the papers, Bohemia is struggling to cope. Now you are the only one who the King wishes for.' Replied the Colonel, his cruel eyes blazing into mine. I refused to look away." said Adler, her beautiful and resolute face turned away, as if for fear of looking at something that neither Holmes nor I could see. "He informed me that I had one week to set my affairs in order, and another two weeks to travel to Bohemia and marry the King.

"I cannot tell you how outraged I was, Mr. Holmes, at the injustice forced upon me by this event. I screamed and demanded for my husband, I begged, I negotiated… but, no, the colonel would not budge. He seemed to almost to enjoy my suffering.

"Over the next few days, I debated my choices. Moran had promised me that I would see my husband again, and often once married, until then, he refused me access to Godfrey. I packed, I spoke to Kitty, and she did the one of the kindest favors anyone has ever done for me. She promised to go with me.

"When I walked outside, men followed me, except when I used male costume, and was unrecognizable. Kitty and I came up with plans, to stay for a bit longer, and wait a bit, then renegotiate for my husband. They attacked the theatre. The terrible arson a year ago was caused by Moran's associates as a warning to me, to get a move on. I was in the building at the time, but escaped, with the help of a few others. Only a small number died, but I still feel responsible for their deaths.

"I knew it was a warning for me. I saw and recognized the goons who did it as the ones who were constantly following me. I looked for a way to negotiate, but I could not find Moran. Finally, after much deliberation, I went to his house and waited for him in that very same study. When he did arrive, I barely escaped with my life.

"Kitty and I left England, escorted by the ever loyal Shinwell Johnson. We left, but did not go to Bohemia, we waited and traveled, attempting to avoid the men who followed us. It was difficult, and Johnson saved my life on several occasions. We traveled Europe, Italy and France, Greece, planning all the while of a way to rescue my husband. But all these plans were doomed- we had no information to go on, no way to continue. We spent sixth months traveling, hiding, and disguising our identities in many ways, each time, lingering only until discovered, and managing to escape only by hair. We were chased into several precarious positions, threatened, captured, and rescued many times.

"Finally, we managed to reach England again, so Kitty and Shinwell could revisit some affairs. But Moran, upon knowing my location, swooped in upon me. He arranged public meeting places for us. On several occasions, he threatened my husband's death. I argued that I want proof that he had him."

"What proof did he offer?" asked Holmes, leaning forward slightly. She held up her hand in reply.

"The ring. My husband's wedding ring, attached to a note in his hand writing… which simply said my name, then his. I was frightened…unsure what to believe… in the end my stubbornness led to my husband's death."

She shed no tears now, and her face grew suddenly colder and stonier still. Holmes' eyes, which were always hard and clear, dimmed for a moment, and I saw a small measure, or perhaps a great measure of sympathy and sadness shine just behind them. It was one of the rarest moments that Holmes showed any measure of deep emotion. I had only seen that look only once before, though in greater intensity, when I was shot by Killer Evans in the Adventure of the Three Garridebs, Holmes had then feared for my life, and swiftly reacted by smashing the gentleman's head with the butt of his gun. It was one of my most important memories, for it was worth a wound –several wounds- to learn of the great loyalty and love that was hidden behind his bright and hard gray eyes.

"Please continue, Ms. Adler." He said quietly, bringing me back from a sea of treasured memories.

"Well, I traveled back to Bohemia, alone this time, fully prepared to marry the King if it would free Godfrey… but when I arrived and saw what Bohemia had become, I could not bear to carry out my act. And when I told Moran of my decision, Godfrey Norton was murdered…and I watched as it occurred."

My eyes widened in horror as I listened to this poor woman's account of the past months. Even Holmes' eyes were opened wide, as if to facilitate the terrible image of Mr. Norton being killed for such a purpose unfolded behind his eyes.

"When I informed Colonel Moran of my choice and demanded my husband, I was captured on the spot, and forced to watch, imprisoned in some godforsaken cell, the slow and torturous death of my husband." She shuddered uncontrollably for some moments before continuing. "In the end, I escaped and ran away back to England. To live by my own will just long enough to this man hanged for the wrongful death of husband, Ronald Adair, and the countless others he has wronged. That is all I can tell you, Mr. Holmes. Please ask no more of me… please."

"I have but a few more questions and it would help us greatly in the advancing of your case, Ms. Adler." said Holmes.

"Holmes!" I cried, but my companion held up a hand to silence me.

"Where are Ms. Kitty Winter, and Shinwell Johnson?"

"In London, you'll probably find them easily. I am staying near Kitty until you clear this matter up."

"Has Moran followed you back to London?"

"Yes…"

"Alright… Thank you, Ms. Adler." And Holmes rose to escort the woman out of our rooms. Though shaken, distressed, and perhaps terribly crippled from the event which she described, Adler rose from her seat and exited our rooms with the same grace in which she arrived.

"I have a feeling that you'll be staying for quite a while, Watson." said Holmes, his voice floating in from the open door of his rooms. I heard the splashing of the water basin in which he frequently washed his face. "These two cases are almost the phantoms of previous cases. Come, hurry Watson, we must get there before twenty minutes to eight. We are headed for the Diogenes Club!"

"We are?" I asked, looking up from another newspaper. It was the next day, both Adler and Hunter had departed from our company. It was nearly seven thirty in the evening.

"Yes Watson, we are. I believe that my brother will be greatly interested in this. Mrs. Hudson, hold our dinner- the Doctor and I are stepping out." He barked to our landlady as she entered the threshold, only to exit it a second later to do as he commanded.

We walked to the Diogenes Club, where Mycroft, Holmes' less well known brother, was waiting for us.

The Diogenes Club is the most peculiar club in London, with regulations based on the idea that all the men in it, came there only to be alone, and enjoy the quiet and the books. Mycroft Holmes, the seven year senior of Sherlock Holmes, was as round and corpulent as Sherlock was thin. Upon first meeting him, Holmes informed me, that Mycroft was more intelligent than he, but was so lazy and lethargic, that he never bothered to test his theories. I soon realized, when in his company, that he was indeed very lazy, but a very capable man, who was valued highly be the government as a vital department member.

"Ah, brother mine." He said pleasantly to Holmes as we entered his room. He extended a huge, flat, flipper-like hand in greeting. "Congratulations on the most recent case, from what I hear, you have returned the papers at the most dire of moments. The Prime Minister was greatly pleased with your success."

"Hum!" cried he. "Government matters are often the less interesting of cases, it is of the smaller cases which I feel are of greater importance to me. But my two most recent ones do not seem to be trifling matters at all. Two people's lives hang in the balance, as does the opportunity of putting away my would-be assassin, Colonel Sebastian Moran."

"You certainly have a handful, Sherlock." said he, taking a pinch of snuff from his tortoiseshell case. He seemed to an obsession with snuff, while Holmes smoked his pipes.

"Yes, that is what I came here to discuss, Mycroft, and it would be helpful if you could advise me once again." And Holmes told him all of our cases.

When he was finished, it was almost twenty to eight. Mycroft smiled, "Ah, dear boy, you know what to do, but if you absolutely insist, I can bring in my department, and you will have the law on your side in your Adler case, but otherwise, you are on your own, Sherlock."

And he departed, leaving the two of us to walk back to Baker Street.

* * *


End file.
